THE MAN WITH THE GOLD WATCH
770 Words
Chapter Three:
Rhodesia never meant to fall for him.
It started like a movie unexpected, thrilling, a little dangerous. He pulled up in a deep blue Mercedes outside a café near school, windows tinted, Afrobeats low in the background. She was standing with Chika, laughing over ice cream and homework, when the window rolled down.
“You dropped something,” a deep voice said.
She turned.
It wasn’t hers. Just a folded receipt from the table. But he winked anyway.
He was tall, with smooth brown skin, an accent laced with wealth, and a gold watch that caught the sun like a secret. He looked nothing like the boys at Meadowcrest. His beard was full, his shoes spotless, and his eyes lingered just a second too long.
Rhodesia felt a rush in her chest fear and curiosity dancing in circles.
Later that evening, he followed her on i********:.
Handle: @KhalilGlobal
His bio: Entrepreneur. Investor. Visionary.
He had photos in Dubai, Cape Town, the Maldives, London. His followers were in the thousands.
She stared at his DM for hours before replying.
Khalil: “You have a wise face for a 16-year-old. That’s rare.”
Rhodesia: “And you’re too smooth for a stranger.”
Khalil: “You make strangers want to know your name.”
She bit her lip. Typed, deleted, typed again.
From there, things moved fast.
Within a week, she was calling him every night.
Khalil was 32 twice her age, twice her experience, and twice her danger. But he didn’t act like he saw her as a child. He spoke to her like she mattered. Like her thoughts were interesting. Like her life could be bigger than school uniforms and afternoon lectures.
“I could take you places,” he said one night. “Show you the world outside Meadowcrest.”
He picked her up once after class in that same blue Benz. She told Chika she had to go home early. Lied with a straight face.
They drove to Lagos Island, ate at a rooftop restaurant with music in the air and laughter in the wind.
“This is living,” Khalil said, pouring sparkling water into her glass. “This is what they don’t teach in school.”
Rhodesia’s chest swelled.
That night, she blocked Lilian.
Not out of anger. But because she realized something: those girls were playing pretend. Khalil was real. A man. A vision. A passport out of the noise.
Tasha sent her a message:
“So you ditching us now for one old man? Lol.”
She didn’t reply.
A month passed. Then two.
She missed over 20 classes. Her grades dropped so low that her math teacher sent a letter home. But she intercepted it before her mother saw it. She deleted Chika’s texts. Dodged every call.
Rhodesia was flying literally.
Khalil took her to Ghana, then to Kenya. Showed her beaches and pools and foreign breakfast plates. She wore lace wigs now, fixed her nails, posted pictures of food with captions like “Soft life or no life.”
She became a mystery at Meadowcrest.
Rumors flew:
“She’s dating an older guy.”
“I heard he owns clubs in Lekki.”
“Didn’t she post from Zanzibar last week?”
“That’s sugar daddy behavior…”
But Rhodesia didn’t care.
Until the day she opened his iPad by accident.
They were in a hotel suite in Cape Verde. Khalil was in the shower. She was watching Netflix when a notification popped up.
“Happy anniversary, baby. I miss you. The boys miss you too.”
The sender’s name: “My Wife 💍
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Wife?
Boys?
Anniversary?!
She clicked.
Messages scrolled up. Photos. A family. Two sons. A wedding portrait in Asaba. One year ago.
Rhodesia’s hand shook.
She dropped the iPad.
When Khalil came out of the bathroom, she didn’t say a word. Just stared at him.
“You’re married,” she whispered.
He froze. For the first time, he didn’t smile.
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
But she’d heard that line in movies and it always meant exactly what she thought.
That night, she left.
Alone. Heart shattered.
She boarded a flight to Nigeria without him.
Her parents didn’t even know she had left the country. Her school had suspended her. Her best friend hated her. The man she thought loved her had lied to her face.
Rhodesia sat by the window in the plane, tears hot on her cheeks.
For the first time in a long time, she felt sixteen again.
Just a girl.
Alone.
And lost.
- Writer
